


100 Subscribers Celebration

by Ballades



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blowjobs, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Ruined Orgasms, Smut, poetic smut?, rarepair, some filth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-15 13:30:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5787001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Requests made of me by my subscribers to celebrate getting to 100!  NSFW filth inside.  Feel free to drop a request via comment!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exitium (f!Inquisitor/Servis)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for drenntrev. Her Inquisitor, Servis, bit of bondage, blowjobs.

His eyelashes.

So dark a brown they are almost black, thick and full and lush. They frame eyes as pretty as sin, and Drenn would have called those lashes wasted if they didn’t come paired with those eyes. Grey-hazel they are, full of humor she will never understand, like he is laughing at some joke she doesn’t know.

Servis isn’t laughing now, and the grey-hazel of those eyes are just a thin ring around the wide blackness of his lust-dilated pupils. Those thick, full lashes close repeatedly, flutter with each stroke of Drenn’s hand, sweep down to lie defeated against his skin when Drenn follows her hand with her mouth.

Servis is whip-slender everywhere else but those lashes and his cock, thick and full and yes, lush, lush in the heady scent she catches when her nose presses against his stomach, lush in how he fills her mouth, lush how he strains beautifully against the chair, his hands bound behind him. Drenn brushes the skin of Servis’s stomach, watches it ripple, moans as her mouth slides down.

He makes a gasping, breathy noise, tenses in a way that dancers do. It’s so artful, this. Servis has gorgeous lines when he’s got his head thrown back and every twitch of him in her throat is mirrored in the contraction of his body. Maker, she loves it. It, not him; it, meaning when she takes him fast and wet and messy, pulling off as his breathing begins to hitch and gallop.

“No,” Servis moans, “no no no no no no no -”

Drenn spits into her palm, grants him no mercy. She has already judged him and found him wanting. She spreads her fingers against the slick on the head of his pretty cock, then pumps him once, twice.

“No no no no no - ah - “ Servis can’t even beg. Everything tightens into that one fantastic moment when his body betrays him and his cock jerks. Drenn watches him lay lines of seed on his belly, his hip, the floor. 

He’ll need to take care of that later.

“Your Worship,” Servis says weakly, sagging against the chair. Even his fingers have gone limp.

“Servis,” Drenn says, swiping a finger across his skin, smearing borders of white over his navel. She licks her finger experimentally, closes her eyes at the taste. “Oh,” she sighs, then sucks. When she’s swallowed she goes back to fingerpaint some more.

“Drenn,” Servis pleads, and at this Drenn straightens, narrowing her eyes, her heart hardening.

She picks up a hand towel from beside the guttering candle on the stand. As a courtesy she unties him, then drops the towel on his chest. “Clean yourself up,” she says, going to the door. “You’re filthy.”


	2. Noveletten (Dorian x m!Trevelyan)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [ajir](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ajir)/lateforerebor, using their Vaxus Trevelyan. Prompt: How about Dorian x M!Trevelyan with frottage? Or... anything porny is great in my books haha ;D

Dorian’s breath smells of mint, blowing cool between Vax’s loosened scarf and the too-warm skin beneath. They stand with foreheads pressed together, their commingled breath fogging each other’s lips, and for a moment, just for a moment, Vax’s mind wanders into the pages of the latest book Cassandra has shared. He and Dorian could be characters in that book; Dorian’s kisses make Vax melt exactly the way he’s seen it described. There’s fluttering. There’s the rapids of his blood beginning to rush through his veins. There’s the adoring gaze as their eyes meet. It wouldn’t be a stretch at all to pretend that they’re the ones immortalized in print.

Print; printing; imprinting; fingers printing desire on hips and necks. Vax pulls Dorian closer as they kiss, seeking his body. Here’s something else that should be immortalized in print, he thinks, this wondrous body housing this even more wondrous man. Dorian loves reading, and so does Vax, and he’s absolutely sure Dorian would love for Vax to read him.

There’s no time for thoroughness; that will have to happen later. An outline, then. The exposition begins with Dorian’s marvelous shoulders. Vax skims the curve of them with his lips as Dorian slips off his clothing. Then the magnificent planes of his chest and stomach, gloriously muscled. Vax’s pulse is running unfettered; fire blooms raw between them. The air thickens.

Vax smiles because things are getting more complicated. They find the bed, and then each other. Everything in Vax wants to find everything in Dorian, wants to meld in the way that speaks of coming home. Breaths rise. Climax nears, and nears again. Dorian’s gasps are threaded through with words: _Vax, Vaxus, amatus._ They stamp themselves into Vax’s heart as they cross over, soaring high.

Dorian props himself up on an elbow later, grey eyes amused as he traces lines idly back and forth over Vax’s thigh, like flipping pages. Given enough time Vax will stir again, and Dorian’s body will mirror his the way their smiles mirror each other.

“How was your day?” Vax murmurs up to his lover.

“I could write a novel,” Dorian replies.


	3. Rookie (m!OC x m!Inquisitor)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for exposedma. Prompt was...not exactly a prompt, but there was definitely talk of a blowjob, and Aramis' inexperience and desire to prove himself. 100 words, the perfect drabble.

Aramis is skilled for someone with no experience. Skilled and eager, ready to please, responding to Taka’s challenges with spiraling hands and mouth and deep moans that vibrate through him.

“Where did you learn this?” Taka groans, his head falling back.

“Instinct?” Aramis offers him a sweet smile, the lamb. Incredible.

“Filthy lies,” Taka says through gritted teeth. “No such thing.” Not like this.

“All right,” Aramis admits, leaning forward, flicking his tongue over the head of Taka’s cock, curling the slick into his mouth. His thumb glides wetly in circles, rubbing. “Personal experience.”

Taka laughs, strained. “The best teacher.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're a subscriber and you'd like to request something of me, just leave a comment!


	4. Parataxis (Sera/Vivienne)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous: I wish you would write a fic where Sera and Vivienne ended up lovers. Still at edges in public, tender and melting in private. (And even their public displays are much warmer than their original party banter!)

It’s improbable how they’ve come together, every aspect of it. They are night and day together, sharply delineated. The idea that the two of them could have anything in common is unbelievable. Farcical, as Vivienne describes it. Sera calls it stupid.

She calls it stupid, but she calls lots of things stupid. Anything and everything has the capacity to be stupid, like the tips Vivienne passes along, or how she sees through the pranks, or how she has a fainting couch both in her receiving area and in her quarters.

“Darling, don’t you know what these were for?” Vivienne asks her. Sundays after chantry services are spent this way now, laid out limp on the couch in Vivienne’s room, spent, _spent._

“That’s stupid,” Sera mumbles, an arm flung over her eyes. She’s tried to practice her words for Vivienne, but right now it’s useless and stupid, and all she can think is _Maker, Maker._ “It’s just a couch.”

Vivienne sniffs elegantly, rising from her chair. She approaches Sera like she’s walking the field, looking for the arrows she’s loosed from Sera’s body with her fingers, her tongue. Vivienne likes to pull Sera taut like a bowstring, waiting for the snap of release, the low thrum of shocks running through her flesh.

“My dearest Sera,” Vivienne practically purrs, “these couches were made for Sundays.”

*** *** ***

They clash the other six days of the week. Mondays through Saturdays it’s open season. They both know the importance of keeping up appearances, though Sera herself couldn’t be arsed. She does it for Vivienne, because it matters to her.

Except it matters less to Vivienne than Sera thinks, so Vivienne softens a little, pulls the bite from her voice when she returns Sera’s volleys. Sera has the potential to do so many things, and Vivienne is content to observe, look for patterns in the chaos. Sera can be shaped, and Vivienne is adaptable and open to opportunity.

There is nothing Vivienne thinks she can learn from Sera. Six out of seven days a week she is secure in the notion. On Sundays, however, Sera’s touches are of butterfly wings, soft and fleeting so unlike her words, her arrows. They call to things long-buried in Vivienne. 

“Darling,” she says to Sera, “my dear.” 

She means it, and Sera giggles when she first hears the change. Sera accepts it, however, because affection is always welcome for someone as starved as she, and she’s realized that Vivienne doesn’t lie.

“Vivienne,” Sera says, singsong and teasing, Sunday after Sunday. “Vivvy-Viv, Viv-Viv.” She expects the immediate retort. Madam de Fer takes her name and title seriously.

“Yes, Sera darling?” Vivienne replies, to which Sera beams.

It’s Monday.


End file.
